Tea
by thejigsawtimess
Summary: Castiel enjoys making tea. Especially for some people. (Destiel Ficlet)


Castiel enjoys making tea. He likes the simplicity of it, the regularity in each step one must take in order to create the perfect hot beverage. He likes to think tea-making is his speciality now, something that his loved ones agree he can do better than anyone else. It's no easy task after all; everyone likes their tea in a slightly different way, even if they may say they don't mind. It's Castiel's job (the one he's assigned himself) to figure out each person's exact preference in regards to how they take their tea, because after all, it's the little things that count.

Sam, for instance, is fond of green tea, as it's better for his health, but failing that, he likes a strong black tea, often with two teabags to properly bring out the flavour. He usually refuses any milk or sugar - the only exception being a drop of soya milk on special occasions - saying it ruins the taste.

Dean, on the other hand, is an entirely different matter. Castiel is working on Dean's cup now, and a smile plays on his lips as he stirs in a heavy slosh of semi-skimmed, along with a carefully levelled teaspoon of sugar. Dean might pretend he's far too manly to want any extras in his drink, but Castiel is observant, and it's hard to miss the tiny smile Dean lets slip when he's handed a big mug of sweet, milky tea. As long as Sam isn't there to lord it over him of course, but Castiel is always discreet about Dean's secret tea habits. Those stay between the tea-maker and the recipient.

Once all three cups, including his own, have been made to everyone's precise requirements, Castiel puts the teaspoon down on the counter, smiling in approval at the steaming mugs. He's about to take Sam and Dean's cups through to the other room, when something catches his eye. A fleck of dried milk, floating on the surface of Dean's drink, rendering it just this side of perfect.

That won't do at all.

Castiel picks up the teaspoon again, dipping the metallic curve of its underbelly into the silky liquid and scooping out the imperfection with a practiced flick. Much better.

There's a brush of air prickling the small hairs at the back of his neck, giving him just enough time to stiffen in surprise, and then two arms, like winding vines, are threading themselves around his waist, and a pair of soft lips are pressing themselves against the spot where his shoulder meets his throat. Castiel gasps, clutching onto the hands pressed against his abdomen because he is caught off guard, though of course he doesn't mind. The teaspoon clatters onto the counter, sending tiny flecks of tan tea bouncing over the polished wood.

"My tea ready yet, matron?"

Castiel smiles and swats at the one of the arms holding him, pulling him tightly into a warm, solid body, so present and sure against his back. "I was just about to bring it in. If anything you're hindering the process."

There's a low chuckle, and Castiel struggles against his bonds, trying to turn. The grip around him loosens after a bit of a pretend fight, and Castiel swivels in Dean's arms, turning to face him at last. There's a moment of some intense gazing, because that's their thing, and Castiel can't find a problem with that whatsoever. It gives him a chance to marvel at the surreal colours dancing in Dean's emerald irises.

"Slacking again, are we? Where's my damn tea?" Dean asks fondly, quietly, and neither of them look away. If anything, Dean pulls him closer, the strong arms wrapped around him tightening their hold, pressing them against one another. Dean's face leans further in, his eyes locking with Castiel's, a playful smile tugging at his lips. "And quit your creepy staring."

If Castiel has learnt anything in his – admittedly short – time as a human, it's that Dean enjoys banter. Heck, he throws witty remarks at monsters and millenia-old creatures that never have a clue about his pop-culture references or punny put-downs, purely for his own entertainment. Well, Castiel has always been an indulgent creature. He gives Dean a twinkling smile and breathes in the fragrant scent of the tea, mingling with Dean's own unique aroma – fresh, crisp pine needles and delicious smoky spices. He stares at him levelly. "Make me."

Dean's eyebrows shoot up, and the response is almost instantaneous; a barely-contained growl rumbling through his chest, breaking free of his teeth, and then Castiel is being pushed backwards, the top of his hips colliding with the countertop, and for once he loves that this new, soft human skin will bruise from it, and that it won't heal for weeks.

"Dean, careful, the tea-"

Dean's mouth crashes against his, silencing him, and Castiel smiles against his lips. The arms gripping his waist loosen a little way, Dean using his hips now to pin Castiel in place against the kitchen counter, and Christ if that isn't making him crazy already. Dean's hands are pressing against his back, palms flat against his shoulderblades, the very place where his wings once shot out, and Castiel grips the countertop with firm fingers, resisting the urge to touch, so that it will be all that sweeter when he does.

Castiel pushes his mouth insistently back against Dean's, determined to give as good as he's getting in this situation where it's clear who is in control. Dean grunts his approval and parts his mouth a little way, sliding his tongue out, to brush Castiel's lips. His hands grip tighter against his back, holding Castiel in place as he pushes his way into the former-Angel's mouth. As Dean's tongue curls against his, Castiel just about breaks, and he clutches hold of Dean, grabbing him by the shoulders and squeezing tightly, knowingly brushing the spot where he can still feel the raised, pinkened skin, signifying his brand, his claim on Dean's soul. Dean moans a little as he feels Cas touch him there, and Castiel loosens his grip slightly; he's still just above average in terms of strength. Dean will probably have fingerprint marks tomorrow.

He doesn't seem to care at present though, instead finding his way to the hem of Castiel's t-shirt and sending his fingers fluttering underneath, his hands brushing along the bare skin of Castiel's back until he arches backward, nearly knocking over Sam's cup behind him.

"Woah careful there, Mrs Doyle." Dean says breathily, his lips brushing Cas's mouth as he says the words. Castiel squirms a little in his arms, the feel of Dean's stroking fingers against his spine becoming almost unbearable. "Can't ruin all your hard work now, can we?"

"Dean, the tea will go cold-"

Dean is apparently merciless, cutting Cas off again with a quick swoop downwards, his torturous lips this time landing on his neck, and proceeding to wetly tongue against the skin there, sucking softly and giving gentle nips, until Castiel has lost all hope of thinking coherently. He moves his arms up, winding one round Dean's neck as the man chuckles sinfully against his throat, and threading the other hand into his short, tufty hair, gripping tightly.

"D-Dean-"

Dean breaks away from what Castiel suspects is now an impressive reddened mark, his lips wickedly moist, just begging to be kissed again. "Yeah?"

He'd been about to suggest that they should throw caution to the winds, send all of the damn cups of tea clattering to the kitchen floor with one grand sweep of an outstretched hand, before hoisting Castiel up onto the counter and letting Dean have his way right then and there – and to be honest, it still seemed like a pretty good plan – but at the sound of one foreign voice, Dean's cocky grin slipped off his face, and Castiel's fingers went slack in his hair.

"Cas! Dean! I was promised tea! If it's cold I'ma be pissed."

Typically, Sam hadn't even the decency to get up from his chair in the other room and come to find out what the hold-up was in person. Dean sighs and lets his head droop, but Cas can see from his expression that not all is lost.

He trails a finger from where it rests atop Dean's scalp, down the outline of his jaw until it slows to a halt under his chin. With caution, he lifts Dean's face up to meet his gaze again, and after a couple of lingering seconds, leans forwards to peck him on the lips.

It's when Dean leans in, just as Castiel moves away, seeking the warmth and feel of his lips again, that Castiel knows he has been successful in his endeavour to re-ignite the flame Sam just put out. "So…you busy now?" Dean murmurs, too low for anyone but Cas to possibly hear. His fingers still dance against Castiel's spine, and it's making him shudder. "For say, an hour? Or two? Better make it three, actually. Four if you wanna cuddle. I know how you like that."

He's grinning now, that same ridiculous, egotistical teeth-baring smile that Castiel loves, because it's the other side of him, the one that isn't filled with self-loathing. "I think by now it's universal knowledge that it's _you _who's the cuddler Dean, not me." Dean's eyes fly wide in faux-horror, and he makes an exaggerated shush-ing sound, pressing his lips against Cas's quickly, as if to shut him up, lest anyone find out his secret. "We'd better make it four hours." Castiel says against Dean's lips, and he feels the responding smile.

"And if you guys are doing… _anything _near my tea, I demand you stop immediately before any excess… _fluids _are added."

They break apart, Sam having effectively ruined the mood. At least Dean is still smiling, and that means Cas is too, obviously. Hands unwind themselves from clothing and necks, and other places, and Dean sighs, giving Cas a pained look that says 'he's my brother, what can you do?'

Castiel loves that he gets to be on the receiving end of such a look.

"Right." Dean says firmly, reaching behind Cas to grab the meticulously prepared black tea, and stalking with it towards the door. "Samantha, I hope you're ready cause you are definitely getting a face full of tea."

Castiel smiles, turning round again, if a little shakily now, to collect his own mug, and take a gentle sip. It's the perfect temperature, now that he's let it cool down. And isn't that always the main fault with tea-drinking? His and Dean's method of waiting for it to cool is one he can definitely live with.

"You," Castiel hears from the doorway, and he turns, surprised, to find Dean standing there, tea still in hand, obviously having backtracked on his way to tell Sam off, "get in there, take the tea, and… have on minimal clothing."

Dean points to the bedroom down the hall, his bedroom, and Castiel smirks a little, nodding once, obediently so that Dean grins at him, winks, and disappears.

Four hours, Castiel muses, staring down at the fawny colour of his brew. That's a length of time one could potentially really do something with. He wonders absently what the next four hours will entail, but quickly decides he'd rather not guess. He likes surprises, especially when it comes to Dean. There's a clatter, and then the distinct sound of two bickering voices permeate the air, coming from a different room. Castiel frowns, wondering if he should go in and see what's happening, but at that moment there's a peal of laughter, definitely Dean's, and it's followed so closely by Sam's that he immediately knows everything is fine.

Castiel takes another long sip of tea. He always liked Earl Grey.


End file.
